by Lisa Kleypas
My father shook his head. “Young people.”
I grinned at him. “I didn’t come up with it. I’m just trying to keep you updated. So . . . yes, I’m going to a therapist, and she’s helped me a lot so far.”
“It’s a waste of money,” Dad said, “paying someone to listen to you complain. All they do is tell you what you want to hear.”
As far as I knew, Dad knew approximately nothing about therapy. “You never told me about your psychology degree, Dad.”
He gave me a dark look. “Don’t tell people you’re going to a therapist. They’ll think something’s wrong with you.”
“I’m not embarrassed for someone to know I have problems.”
“The only problems you got are the ones you made for yourself. Like marrying Nick Tanner when I told you not to.”
I smiled ruefully as I reflected that my father never missed a chance to say I-told-you-so. “I’ve already admitted you were right about Nick. You can keep reminding me about it, and I can keep admitting I was wrong, but I don’t think that’s productive. Besides, you were wrong in how you handled it.”
His eyes glinted with annoyance. “I stood by my principles. I’d do it again.”
I wondered where he’d gotten his notions of fathering. Maybe he thought it was good for his children to have the authority figure he’d never had. His fear of ever admitting he was wrong, about anything, seemed like strength to him. It seemed like weakness to me.
“Dad,” I said hesitantly, “I wish you could be there for me even when I’m doing the wrong thing. I wish you could love me even when I’m screwing up.”
“This has nothing to do with love. You need to learn there are consequences in life, Haven.”
“I already know that.” I had faced consequences Dad didn’t even know about. If we had had a different relationship, I would have loved to confide in him. But that required a kind of trust that took years to accumulate. “I shouldn’t have rushed into marriage with Nick,” I admitted. “I should have had better judgment. But I’m not the only woman who’s ever fallen in love with the wrong man.”
“Your whole life,” he said bitterly, “all you ever wanted was to do the opposite of what your mother or I said. You were more contrary than all three boys put together.”
“I didn’t mean to be. I just wanted your attention. I would have done anything to get some time with you.”
“You’re a grown woman, Haven Marie. Whatever you did or didn’t get when you were a child, you need to get over it.”
“I am getting over it,” I said. “I’m done with expecting you to be any different from what you are. I’d like you to do the same for me, and then maybe the two of us could stop being so disappointed in each other. From now on, I’ll try to make better choices. But if that means doing something that pisses you off, so be it. You don’t have to love me. I love you anyway.”
Dad didn’t seem to hear that. He was intent on finding out something. “I want to know what’s going on with you and Hardy Cates. Are you taking up with him?”
I smiled slightly. “That’s my business.”
“He’s got a reputation,” Dad warned. “He lives at one speed: wide-open. Not cut out for marrying.”
“I know,” I said. “Neither am I.”
“I’m warning you, Haven, he’ll run roughshod over you. He’s a no-account East Texas redneck. Don’t give me another reason to say ‘I told you so.’ ”
I sighed and looked at him, this parent who was always convinced he knew best. “Tell me, Dad . . . who would be the right guy for me? Give me an example of someone you’d approve of.”
Settling back comfortably, he drummed his thick fingers on his midriff. “George Mayfield’s boy, Fisher. He’ll come into money someday. Good character. Solid family. Nice-looking too.”
I was aghast. I had gone to school with Fisher Mayfield. “Dad, he has the blandest, limpest personality in the entire world. He’s the human equivalent of cold spaghetti.”
“What about Sam Schuler’s son?”
“Mike Schuler? Joe’s old buddy?”
Dad nodded. “His daddy’s one of the best men I know. God-fearing, hardworking. And Mike always had the best manners of any young man I ever met.”
“Mike’s turned into a pothead, Dad.”
My father looked offended. “He has not.”
“Ask Joe if you don’t believe me. Mike Schuler is single-handedly responsible for the annual income of thousands of Colombian ganja farmers.”
Dad shook his head in disgust. “What’s the matter with the younger generation?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “But if those are your best suggestions, Dad . . . that no-account East Texas redneck is looking pretty good.”
“If you start up with him,” my father said, “you make sure he knows he’ll never get his hands on my money.”
“Hardy doesn’t need your money,” I took pleasure in saying. “He’s got his own, Dad.”
“He’ll want more.”
AFTER HAVING LUNCH with my father, I went back to my apartment and took a nap. I woke up replaying the conversation we’d had, and brooding over his lack of interest in any real father-daughter communication. It depressed me, realizing I wasn’t ever going to get the same kind of love from him that I was willing to give. So I called Todd and told him about the visit.
“You were right about something,” I said. “I do have a pathetic daddy complex.”
“Everyone does, sweetheart. You’re not special.”
I chuckled. “Want to come over and have a drink at the bar?”
“Can’t. Got a date tonight.”
“With who?”
“A very hot woman,” Todd said. “We’ve been working out together. What about you? Sealed the deal with Hardy yet?”
“No. He was supposed to call today, but so far—” I stopped as I heard the call waiting beep. “That might be him. I’ve got to go.”
“Good luck, sweetheart.”
I clicked over to the second call. “Hello?”
“How are you feeling?” The sound of Hardy’s drawl slow-blistered every nerve.
“Fine.” My voice sounded like a squeaky balloon. I cleared my throat. “How are you? . . . Any pulled muscles from yesterday?”
“Nope. Everything in working order.”
I closed my eyes and let out a breath as I absorbed the warm, waiting silence between us.
“Still mad at me?” Hardy asked.
I couldn’t hold back a smile. “I guess not.”
“Then will you go out to dinner with me tonight?”
“Yes.” My fingers curled tightly around the phone. I wondered what I was doing, agreeing to a date with Hardy Cates. My family would have a fit. “I like to eat early,” I told him.
“So do I.”
“Come to my apartment at six?”
“I’ll be there.”
After he hung up, I sat quietly for a few minutes, thinking.
I knew Dad would say I had no idea what I was getting into, going out with Hardy Cates. But when you started dating someone, you could never be sure what you were getting into. You had to give someone a chance to show you who he really was . . . and believe him when he did.
I DRESSED IN jeans and high heels and a daffodil-colored halter top with a sparkly pin anchoring one strap to the bodice. Using a straightening iron, I worked on my hair until it was shiny and the ends were all turned up. Since the weather was humid, I used a minimum of makeup, just a touch of mascara and cherry-colored lip stain.
It occurred to me that I was a lot more nervous about the idea of sleeping with Hardy than I had been with Nick as a virgin. Probably because with the first guy, you figured you got a beginner’s pass. With the second one, however, something more would be expected. It hadn’t helped that I had recently taken a women’s-magazine quiz entitled “Are You Good in Bed?” and my score had put me in the category of Inhibited Babe, and had given all kinds of suggestions for enhancing my “carnal abiliti
es,” most of which sounded unsanitary, uncomfortable, or just plain unsightly.
By the time I heard the doorbell ring, a few minutes before six, the tension had collected until my entire skeleton felt like it had been fastened with tight metal screws. I opened the door. But it wasn’t Hardy.
There stood my ex-husband, dressed in a suit and tie, perfectly groomed and smiling. “Surprise,” he said, and grabbed my arm before I could move.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I REELED BACK, TRYING TO BREAK FREE, BUT HE followed me across the threshold. Nick’s smile never wavered. I knocked his hand away from me and faced him, trying to keep the alarm from showing on my face.
I was in the middle of a nightmare. I thought it couldn’t be real, except that misery and fear and anger were swarming over me like insects, and that feeling was all too familiar. It had been my reality for almost two years.
Nick looked healthy, fit, a little heavier than he’d been during our marriage. The new roundness of his face emphasized a boyishness that wouldn’t sit well as he aged. But overall he gave the appearance of a clean-cut, prosperous, conservative guy.
Only someone who knew him like I did would be aware of the monster inside.
“I want you to leave, Nick.”
He gave a bemused laugh, as if my quiet hostility were coming out of left field. “My God, Marie. I haven’t seen you in months, and that’s the first thing you say?”
“I didn’t invite you here. How did you find my apartment? How did you get past the concierge?” David never let nonresidents into the building without first getting approval.
“I found out where you were working, and I went to your office. Just talked to your manager, Vanessa—she told me you lived here in the building. She gave your apartment number and said to go right on up. Nice girl. Said she’d show me around Houston whenever I want.”
“You two have a lot in common,” I said tersely. Damn Vanessa! I had told her enough about my past to make her aware that I was not on good terms with my former husband. No surprise that she would make use of any opportunity to cause trouble.
Nick ventured farther into my apartment.
“What do you want?” I asked, backing away.
“Just thought I’d drop by and say hi. I’m in town to interview for a job with an insurance company. They need an estimator. I’m sure I’ll get it—I’m totally the best guy for the position.”
He was interviewing for a job in Houston? I was sick at the thought. A city with a population of two million was still not big enough for me to share with my ex-husband.
“I’m not interested in your career plans.” I tried to keep my voice steady. “You and I have nothing to do with each other anymore.” I moved toward the phone. “Leave, or I’ll have to call for building security.”
“Still the drama,” Nick murmured, rolling his eyes. “I came to do you a favor, Marie, if you’d let me talk long enough to—”
“Haven,” I snapped.
He shook his head, as if he were confronting a small child who was having a temper tantrum. “Okay. Christ. I have some things that belong to you. I’d like to give them back.”
“What things?”
“Stuff like a scarf, a purse . . . and that charm bracelet you got from your aunt Gretchen.”
I’d had my lawyer request the return of the bracelet, and Nick had claimed it was lost. I had known better, of course. But the chance to have it back caused a stab of longing. That little piece of my past meant a lot to me.
“Great,” I heard myself say casually. “Where is it?”
“Back at my hotel. Meet me tomorrow, and I’ll bring it.”
“Just send it to me.”
He smiled. “You can’t have something for nothing, Haven. You can have your things back, including that bracelet—but you have to meet me in person. Just to talk. A public place is fine, if that’s what you want.”
“All I want is for you to leave.” I wondered when Hardy would show up. Probably any minute now. And then there was no telling what would happen. Sweat gathered between my skin and clothes, making the fabric adhere in salty patches. “I’m expecting someone, Nick.”
But instantly I knew that was the wrong thing to say. Instead of making him leave, it guaranteed that he would stay. Nick wanted a look at the next man in line.
“You said you weren’t dating.”
“Well, now I am.”
“How long you known him?”
I stared at him coldly, refusing to answer.
“Does he know about me?” Nick pressed.
“He knows I’m divorced.”
“You fucked him yet?” His tone was soft, but there was contempt and anger in his gaze.
“You have no business asking that.”
“Maybe he’ll have better luck thawing you out than I did.”
“Maybe he already has,” I shot back, and had the satisfaction of seeing his eyes widen in surprised fury.
I saw movement, someone coming to the doorway . . . Hardy’s long, lean form. He paused for a moment, assessing the situation. And his eyes narrowed as Nick turned to face him.
I knew Hardy realized immediately who my visitor was. He could tell from the angry bruised weight of the air, and the bleached whiteness of my face.
I had never expected to make direct physical comparisons between the two men. However, with both of them in the same room, it was impossible not to. Objectively speaking, Nick was more handsome, with smaller, more chiseled features. But Hardy’s roughcast good looks and self-assurance made Nick look callow. Unformed.
As Nick stared at Hardy, his aggressive stance softened, and he actually moved back a half step. Whatever kind of man Nick had been expecting me to date, it wasn’t this. My former husband had always felt superior to everyone—I had never seen him so visibly intimidated.
It struck me that Hardy, a seasoned, high-octane male, was the authentic version of what Nick was always pretending to be. And because Nick knew deep down that he was a fraud as a man, he occasionally gave in to the explosive rages that I had been a casualty of.
Hardy walked into the apartment and came to me without hesitation, brushing by Nick. I quivered as he slid his arm around me, his eyes dark blue as he stared down at me. “Haven,” he murmured. The sound of his voice seemed to unlock a tight clamp around my lungs—I hadn’t been aware that I’d been holding my breath. I took in some air. His grip tightened, and I felt some of his vitality jolt into me like an electric current.
“Here,” Hardy said, pressing something into my grasp. I looked down at the offering. Flowers. A gorgeous burst of mixed colors, rustling and fragrant in tissue wrapping.
“Thank you,” I managed to say.
He smiled slightly. “Go put them in water, honey.” And then, to my disbelief, I felt him pat my bottom familiarly, right in front of Nick. The classic male signal of this is mine.
I heard my ex-husband take a swift breath. Darting a glance at him, I saw the glow of anger begin at his shirt collar, rising fast. There had been a time when that flush of fury would have heralded untold misery for me. But no longer.
I felt a strange mixture of emotions . . . a knee-jerk uneasiness at the sight of Nick’s anger . . . a twinge of annoyance at Hardy . . . but mostly a sense of triumph, knowing that no matter how badly Nick wanted to punish me, he couldn’t.
And although I had never especially liked the fact that Hardy was so physically imposing, I relished it at that moment. Because there was only one thing a bully like Nick respected, and that was a bigger bully.
“What brings you to Houston?” I heard Hardy ask casually as I went to the kitchen sink.
“Job interview,” Nick replied in a subdued tone. “I’m Nick Tanner, Haven’s—”
“I know who you are.”
“I didn’t catch your name.”
“Hardy Cates.”
Glancing back, I saw that neither of them had moved to shake hands.
The name rang a bell for Nick—I saw the fli
cker of recognition on his features—but he couldn’t quite put it in context. “Cates . . . wasn’t there some trouble between you and the Travises a while back?”
“You could say so,” Hardy replied, sounding not at all regretful. A deliberate pause, and then he added, “Getting friendly with one of ’em, though.”
He was referring to me, of course. Pushing Nick’s buttons on purpose. I sent Hardy a warning glare, which went completely unnoticed, and I saw the quiver of outrage run across Nick’s face.
“Nick was just leaving,” I said hastily. “Goodbye, Nick.”
“I’ll call you,” Nick said.
“I’d rather you didn’t.” I turned back to the sink, unable to look at my ex-husband for another second.
“You heard her,” came Hardy’s murmur. And there was something else, some brief exchange of words before the door closed firmly.
I let out a shuddery sigh, unaware that I was gripping the bunched flower stems until I looked down and saw a smear of blood on the fleshy pad beneath my right thumb. A thorn had punctured it. I ran some water over my hand to clean it, filled a vase, and settled the flowers in it.
Hardy came up behind me, gave a quiet exclamation as he saw the blood on my hand.
“It’s okay,” I said, but he took my hand and held it under the water. When the tiny wound was rinsed, he reached for a paper towel and folded it a couple of times.
“Keep pressure on it.” He stood facing me, gripping the paper towel against my palm. I was so unsettled by Nick’s visit that I couldn’t think of a thing to say. Unhappily I acknowledged that I couldn’t throw out my past like an old pair of shoes. I would never be free of it. I could move on, but Nick would always be able to find me, walk back into my life, remind me of things I would have given anything to forget.
“Look at me,” Hardy said after a minute.
I didn’t want to. I knew he would read my face far too easily. I couldn’t help remembering what Todd had said about him . . . “You watch his eyes. Even when he’s doing his regular-guy routine, he’s taking measure, learning, every damn second . . .”
But I forced myself to meet his gaze.
“Did you know he was in town?” Hardy asked.
